


Linked

by juliasets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Men of Letters, Rowena hits on Sam, SPN Reversebang, Season/Series 14, She's valid, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 15:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliasets/pseuds/juliasets
Summary: When Rowena told Sam that she found a lead on a way to save Dean from Michael, he dropped everything to follow up with her. He probably shouldn't have been surprised when it ended with them handcuffed together.





	Linked

**Author's Note:**

> I based this fic off of some wonderful art that I was lucky enough to claim, by [Twisted Slinky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky). I had a great time writing this, Rowena is always a treat to write. Thanks also to the SPN Reverse Bang mods for running a smooth challenge.
> 
> Check out the gorgeous art post [here!](https://twisted-slinky.livejournal.com/116088.html)
> 
> This takes place before the Season 14 premiere and was at least partially written before the aired episodes.

* * *

“Sam?”

Sam’s head whipped around at the sound of Jack’s voice. He hastily stood from his crouch, knocking into his companion and sending her stumbling into a table. He fumbled an arm around her slim waist as Jack entered the library.

“Hey, Jack,” he said, hoping for casual.

Jack looked back and forth between Sam and Rowena, who was now pressed up against Sam’s side. “You’re back.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam said, fumbling for words. “Didn’t really pan out.”

“Oh,” Jack said, but his eyes kept drifting to the witch at Sam’s side.

“I wouldn’t trouble yourself, laddie,” Rowena said smoothly. “We’ll find something to save dear old Dean.”

Jack nodded and turned to leave, but stopped and turned back. “Are you both okay?”

Sam gave a strained smile, but it was Rowena who answered. “Fabulous, love. Now run along.”

Once Jack was out of earshot Sam whipped his hand from around Rowena’s waist. A short chain trailed from a gold cuff on his right wrist and as he moved his arm it snapped taught, dislodging Rowena’s hand from where it had been resting comfortably on his ass. Her left wrist was similarly bound.

“Really?” Sam asked, putting as much space between them as he could manage while still tethered to her.

“Well I don’t see why we can’t have a little fun with the situation.”

Sam crouched back down to grab out the Black Grimoire from where it had been stored, placing the heavy tome on a nearby table. “Nothing about this is fun.”

“Speak for yourself.”

  


* * *

  


They’d been searching for some way to stop Michael, who was currently running around in a very Dean Winchester-shaped vessel. There were a lot of competing issues at hand: how to find Michael, how to extract him from Dean, and then how to kill or contain the archangel. Sam had spent the better part of several years trying to figure out similar solutions for Lucifer and while they’d had some breakthroughs on that front he was still at a loss as to how to save his brother.

Which was why, when Rowena called him up to announce she had a lead, Sam left the bunker to meet up with her just outside Memphis.

What she had found was a set of golden shackles, inscribed with sigils and crackling with magic. According to Rowena they would bind the power of whoever they trapped. If they worked on Michael they’d be able to imprison him until they discovered a way to kick him out. Sam hoped they’d work better than the cuffs they used on demons, considering Lucifer had burned straight through a pair of those back in the Apocalypse World.

So, the plan, such as it was: retrieve the cuffs, get them on Michael, then figure out the next steps from there.

But then Sam and Rowena came upon the cuffs themselves, laid out in a velvet-lined mahogany box. Why they’d each reached out to touch the shimmering gold surface couldn’t exactly be said—probably a spell—but the instant they made contact the cuffs had flickered like a spirit and locked around their wrists.

They’d tried to get them off. Rowena had tried first, hovering her right hand over the cuff on her left wrist and muttering a spell. Her eyes had flickered purple with power but at the same instant Sam felt a push-pull-tug through the cuff, like something latched onto his stomach and tried to pull it out through his navel. It stung. Sam had doubled over in a full body cringe and Rowena  clearly didn’t feel much better.

“Something’s blocking my magic,” she’d said once she recovered.

“Three guesses as to what,” Sam said dryly.

After that Sam had tried. There wasn’t even a mechanism for him to pick or a hinge to exploit. The cuffs seemed to have fused so they were unbroken rings of gold circling their wrists. He’d been reduced to tugging at them fruitlessly until Rowena called him a caveman and put a stop to his struggle.

“We could try breaking the chain?” he suggested.

Rowena shook her head, running the dainty gold links through her fingers. “I wouldn’t bother, it’ll be reinforced by magic.”

So they’d been forced to return to the bunker. Sam could only be relieved that the cuff was on his right wrist and Rowena’s left so he was able to comfortably drive them both back in the Impala, without needing Rowena to sit wedged up against the driver’s side door or on his lap.

Which really didn’t even bear thinking about.

In any case, their hope was that the Black Grimoire, being the most powerful spell book Sam had access to, might have a spell that would free them.

  


* * *

  


“Can you search any faster?”

Rowena glanced up with a scathing look. “You can’t rush genius, Samuel.”

It was late at night, so most of the apocalypse refugees who had been calling the bunker home were asleep. Sam was thankful for that; he didn’t exactly relish the idea of explaining why he was currently chained to a 300 year old witch. Hence his fumbling charade for Jack, who was fortunately a little too naïve to suspect much.

He could’ve asked some of them for help, of course. The hunters were a little rusty on curses and witchcraft after over a dozen years fighting mostly angels, but it remained true that Bobby had probably forgotten more about witchcraft than most people ever knew.

Michael’s appearance in this world had shaken them all and Sam had ended up acting as de facto leader. “Chief.” It wasn’t a role he relished, but with Dean MIA he was the most experienced hunter and the one who knew this world the best. He was best positioned to keep people safe. And it didn’t hurt to have the resources available to help track down Dean, so he wasn’t going to turn them away.

If Sam was honest with himself, though, he wasn’t sure how they’d handle his working with an only somewhat-reformed witch. He’d noticed that the other hunters had a more black and white view on humans versus monsters. Not really surprising, given what they’d dealt with. Heck, most hunters in this world weren’t buddy-buddy with witches.

All of this to say, he was a little wary of being walked in on right now.

But Rowena was the best at her craft. And she didn’t exactly play nice with others.

Sam had been so used to living in the murky shades of morally gray that when Michael vanished with Dean’s body he hadn’t hesitated to call Rowena and beg for her help. She wasn't eager to get on the bad side of another archangel, but she'd promised to see what she could do.

And now here they were: chained together at the wrist, reading furtively from a book of black magic in the middle of the bunker.

“Maybe we could take this somewhere else?” he suggested, trying for casual and missing.

Rowena glanced up from the book, her face morphing into one of giddy delight. “Why, Samuel, am I your dirty little secret?”

But Sam hadn’t been a little brother all his life to be fazed by light teasing. “You really want everyone to know that you got trapped by these?”

She considered the point. “Touché.” She closed the Black Grimoire and shoved it in her enormous purse. “This pathetic cave doesn’t live up to my standards anyway.”

  


* * *

  


Rowena had nixed Sam’s idea to head to the closest motel and he’d refused her request to drive to the Ritz-Carlton in Denver. They’d settled on Wichita, only a few hours away. Rowena wasn’t much of a travel companion. She’d grown bored after the first hour and decided to snoop through the glove compartment.

“Your brother has dreadful taste in music,” she said as she sifted through the cassettes.

Sam may have agreed, but the good-natured ribbing about his brother’s music that he normally enjoyed tasted sour with Dean still gone.

When they’d arrived in Wichita Sam had let Rowena check them into the swankiest hotel in the city, though she looked at the elegant furnishings like they personally offended her. “Three-stars,” she muttered in disgust. To hide the cuffs Sam had to hold her close, arm snug against her lower back.

The room was a classy suite with a view over the city that maybe Sam would’ve appreciated under other conditions. As it was he hadn’t explored any of it other than the dark wooden table where he’d set up his laptop. Rowena sat next to him, paging through the Black Grimoire.

Research was an exercise in frustration. Rowena turned the pages with her free right hand. This should’ve theoretically left both of Sam’s hands free to type away, but he didn’t realize until now how often he unconsciously moved his hands while wrapped up in research. He swept his hair back and nervously bit his cuticles and rubbed at his face with exhaustion.

Except now every time he did any of that he was brought up short by his tether to Rowena. The constant tugs on her arm were clearly irritating her. Inwardly Sam was thanking his lucky stars that the cuffs were dampening her magic, otherwise he was sure he would’ve been hexed by now.

Sam was startled by Rowena slamming the spell book shut. He looked over to find her staring at him appraisingly.

“Find anything?” he asked.

She cocked her head a bit and stood. He pushed his chair back a bit as she moved into his personal space, but the overstuffed floral armchair in this fancy hotel room was too heavy to maneuver. She stepped carefully between his knees, bringing a leg up to kneel on the chair. She was wearing a floor-length green sheath of a dress that shimmered slightly in the soft hotel lights. He instinctively tried to scoot back, never fully comfortable with someone’s knee being that close to his crotch, but there was no room in his chair.

“Uh, what are you doing?”

“Did you know,” Rowena drawled, running her free hand down his arm, “that an… intimate… connection can be used to fuel powerful magic?”

“Did you find something like that in the book?” Sam asked, holding himself as still as possible, refusing to rise to the bait.

“No, but I’m willing to improvise,” she said with a leer, leaning in.

Sam leaned back. “I’ll pass.”

She frowned a little and continued leaning forward, placing both her hands on Sam’s chest as she ducked her head until her mouth was almost brushing his ear. “If you’re not interested, then can I suggest…” she tilted her torso back so she could look down into his eyes. “That we get some bloody sleep?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

Rowena rolled her eyes and stepped backwards. Not far, of course, not with the chain still linking them. “I had hoped to tire you out so you could find your way to letting me rest, Samuel. I’m no more happy about it than you are, but I wasn’t lying when I told you years back that I need my beauty sleep.”

“We need to…”

“What _I_ need is sleep. You cannot imagine the disaster that an exhausted witch with my powers can do. Even with these bloody things on.”

He grimaced as he considered exactly that. With a sigh he reached over to the table and shut his laptop. Not that he’d admit it, but the letters were starting to swim on the screen for him as well. He’d been burning the candle at both ends since Michael had taken off with Dean’s body, surviving on a few hours of shuteye here and there.

“Okay,” he agreed. He needed her at the top of her game to try and get them out of this and there was no point running her into the ground.

They spent another few awkward moments trying to give each other privacy as they took care of their business in the bathroom. Brushing his teeth with his left hand was a pain. Going to the bathroom was an exercise in mortification.

After surviving that gauntlet they found themselves standing awkwardly next to the bed. It was a massive thing, a king topped by a stately wooden headboard. Sam was almost looking forward to sleeping in a bed that his feet wouldn’t hang off of. He stepped forward and Rowena yanked back on the chain.

“You will not be getting in bed with me in your dirty hunting clothes,” she pronounced.

Sam rolled his eyes. “I can’t get my shirts off unless I cut them off.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she snapped.

Too tired to argue he waved his free hand. “Fine, fine.” He reached carefully for his duffel, stretching out to not jostle Rowena too much, and dug through it for his sleepwear. He had just thumbed the button on his jeans when he realized he was still being watched. “A little privacy?” he asked.

“Och, do you think you have anything I haven’t seen?” Rowena scoffed.

Sam didn’t rise to the bait, only met her gaze steadily until she huffed and angled her body away from him as best as she could.

He was able to get his jeans off, which took a bit of wriggling, as he couldn’t pull them down without yanking Rowena to the ground with him. He was able to angle his torso and left hand down far enough to step into his sweats without jostling her too much.

His flannel was a little more difficult. He tried to unbutton it with only his left hand but after a minute of struggling he gently brought his right hand up to help. Rowena turned around as her arm was pulled. “I could help with that,” she said.

“No thanks.”

Once he’d unbuttoned it he was forced to acknowledge that there was no way to get the shirt entirely off. He pulled his left arm out of it, but only managed to slide it down so it hung, bunched up, on the chain trailing from his right hand. He decided to keep his t-shirt on, even though he knew he’d be cutting it off if they didn’t find a solution before it got really ripe. Deodorant could only do so much.

Sam could only hope they figured something out before a shower became a necessity.

“Your turn,” he said, politely giving Rowena his back so she could have some privacy. He wasn’t sure how she’d manage to escape her long green dress, but he figured she might have to do the same type of thing—

There was a familiar lurch in his gut and he whipped around to find Rowena’s dress had been replaced by a long, black silk nightgown.

“So your magic isn’t entirely suppressed.”

“You felt that?” She asked. Sam nodded. “It’s a bit like pulling teeth right now, I’m afraid. I don’t have the power to get these off. But for simple tasks I can make do.”

He filed that away for future reference and lifted his right arm, nodding at the plaid shirt hung from the chain. “Do you mind?”

She waved a hand and Sam only felt a slight twinge through the cuff as the shirt felt to the floor in a heap.

Usually Sam was meticulous in stowing his things on the road. He’d had too many close calls, too many nights that ended with a mad dash for the car as they high-tailed it out of town. But just this once he was allowing himself to be lazy. He did, however, grab his gun from where he’d set it on the table.

“And what, precisely, are you going to do with that?” Rowena asked.

“Your magic is still on the fritz,” he pointed out. He wasn’t going to mention that it was loaded with witch-killing bullets. He trusted Rowena, mostly, but that trust only went so far.

They moved towards the bed and immediately collided. Sam caught Rowena’s arm as she stumbled back. “What are you doing?”

“Going to my side of the bed, you great lummox,” she said snippily.

“But…” Sam glanced over at the bed, the room itself. “Uh. I sleep on my stomach?”

 “Well I do not,” Rowena said, but before Sam could offer another excuse she heaved a great sigh. “Alright, fine. Save the pathetic looks for someone else.”

He hadn’t been lying, of course. He did sleep on his stomach. But the left side of the bed that he was angling for was also the side closest to the door. With Rowena’s magic mostly useless, he wanted to make sure anything coming in would have to go through him. He carefully stowed his gun under the pillow as they maneuvered themselves into laying close enough together that the chain wasn’t pulling but far enough apart for modesty’s sake. Sam ended up on his stomach and Rowena was to his right, lying on her back with her linked arm stretched across her stomach towards him.

Sam hadn’t slept in the same bed as someone in a long time. Years. Strange to not be able to shift as he wanted, to only have one arm buried beneath the pillow.

He turned his head so he could look at her. “Did you figure out why the cuffs locked onto us?”

Rowena rolled onto her side toward him. Their linked hands lay next to each other between them. “They’re not specifically angel cuffs, if that’s what has you confused.”

“I guessed as much,” Sam admitted. At her confusion he elaborated. “No Enochian on the inscriptions.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve never been a fan of it, myself. Dreadful language.”

“So, what then? Why did you suggest them?”

“I believe the cuffs are agnostic with regards to power,” Rowena said. “They react to anything powerful. Hence…” She gestured with her cuffed hand.

Sam frowned. “Sure, that makes sense for you. But why me?”

Rowena rolled her eyes and flopped onto her back. “Just because you don’t acknowledge your power doesn’t mean it’s not there, Sam.” With that she shut her eyes, putting an end to the conversation.

Sam turned his face away, and while he’d been exhausted only moments ago now he couldn’t help the thoughts racing through his brain. He wasn’t sure how much Rowena knew about the psychic, demon-blood enhanced powers he’d once had. Had she heard stories? Or could she sense something about him? Sam had once thought that the Trials to close the gates of hell were cleansing his blood of the taint Azazel had left in him. He’d stubbornly clung to that for years, hoping that at least one good thing had come from that mess. But lately he’d wondered if that was naïve.

Eventually even his existential dread wasn’t enough to keep him awake and the thoughts of visions and the slow rolling feel of power chased him down into sleep.

  


* * *

  


_BANG_

Sam started awake, going immediately for his gun. He was brought up short when the tether on his right hand jerked tight as Rowena also woke with a flail. Grabbing the gun with his left hand he levered himself up on the bed.

The sound had come from the door.

“What is it?” Rowena asked.

“Don’t know,” Sam said, bringing his gun up to bear and rising to his knees.

_BANG_

The door crashed open, lock splintering the frame.

A man strode through the doorway. He wore a three-piece suit and his blonde hair was slicked back from his face. Sam pegged him somewhere between 45 and 50 as he trained his gun on the figure.

“Who are you?”

The stranger ignored him, sizing them both up. His eyes lit up as he spotted the golden shackles linking them together.

“Witch,” he said, positively gleefully.

“Hunter,” Sam corrected, adjusting his grip on his gun as best he could one-handed.

That made the intruder’s eyes refocus on Sam and he held his hands up submissively. Not that Sam was fooled. He could fire, but if this guy was a demon the bullets would be useless and if he wasn’t Sam didn’t want to kill unless he had to.

As the man raised his arms the sleeves on his suit jacket slipped down, exposing a golden band around his wrist. Sam only had a glimpse before the stranger brought his other hand to press against the band and suddenly fire was racing up Sam’s right arm.

Sam instinctively clutched at his right wrist, where the pain was emanating from, his gun dropping unheeded from his hand. Rowena was shouting and doubled over next to him. The burning stopped as abruptly as it started and Sam raised his head just in time to see that the intruder had pulled his own gun.

Reacting on instinct Sam curled his body around Rowena, taking them down just as the first shots were fired. He rolled them off the far side of the bed as bullets tore through the mattress around them.

“Surrender,” the man said when the barrage subsided. Probably reloading.

“Oh, piss off,” Rowena shot back before turning to Sam. “Why didn’t you bloody shoot him?”

Sam’s response was only a glare before he addressed their attacker. “Who are you?”

“Men of Letters don’t answer to witches,” was the response and Sam could only groan.

“Do they answer to one of their own?” Rowena asked.

“There are no other Men of Letters.”

Sam thought through the list of chapters and the map in his mind. They’d found the cuffs in Memphis. “You from the Canton chapter?”

There was a pause. “Who are you?”

“Sam Winchester, Henry Winchester’s grandson.”

“The hunter Sam Winchester? Brother of Dean Winchester?”

Knowing the Men of Letters’ feelings on hunters Sam wasn’t entirely sure how that would play, but there was probably no use lying about it now. “Yes. My brother and I are legacies.”

“You’re a legend.”

Great, a fanboy. Sam rolled his eyes, glad the moron couldn’t see him. “If I come out are you going to shoot me?”

“No, of course not.”

He gestured at Rowena to stay down and carefully stood, empty left hand held up in surrender, right hand low and open, allowing the witch to remain hidden. The man’s gun was lowered slightly, but still a threat. “Now you know my name…”

“Of course, of course. William Layton. I’m a legacy as well.” He puffed himself up proudly and Sam struggled to keep the disdain off his face.

Sam nodded. “Will you put the gun away?”

Sam relaxed fractionally as Layton holstered his gun at his side and allowed himself a deep breath.

Layton’s eyes were glued to the chain trailing from Sam’s wrist. “I’ve never seen the cuffs do that before.”

“Yes, well…” Sam started, reaching for words that would make sense. Convincing a Men of Letters to let a witch go might be an uphill battle, but Layton was their best bet to getting the cuffs off.

“Who is she?” Layton asked, gesturing with his gun towards where Rowena remained crouched behind the bed.

“She’s…” Sam started. “A friend.”

“A witch.”

“Yes,” Sam said, slowly.

“And you must have some latent natural ability, as well,” Layton mused aloud.

Layton seemed to be talking to himself. Sam wasn't sure it would be better to correct his impression and announce that, actually, he had demonic powers. Probably wouldn't go over well.

As he struggled to decide what to reveal Layton moved the hand not holding his gun. Sam tensed, ready to dive for cover, as Layton again pressed his fingers against the band at his wrist.  But this time darkness rose up and swept Sam away.

  


* * *

  


Sam woke abruptly, the way he usually did after being spelled into unconsciousness.

And, like he often did when spelled into unconsciousness, he also woke tied to a chair.

He kept his eyes pressed closed, feigning sleep as he listened for the presence of others. He could feel the manacle on his right wrist and hear Rowena’s quiet breaths next to him. No other sounds.

He cracked an eye open and didn’t spot Layton. They were sitting in well-crafted wooden chairs in the middle of a large unfinished basement. The concrete floor was cool against Sam’s bare feet. Sam looked around slowly, still trying to be subtle about it in case Layton was still around, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

The basement wasn’t much to write home about. There was a shelf full of curse boxes and an old wooden desk scattered with papers and books. It looked to be a residential basement. It was cool enough here, but his skin was tacky with dried sweat, so Sam assumed it was probably hot outside. Assuming they’d been transported bodily and not through magic, that suggested Sam was right with his guess that Layton was part of the remnants of the Men of Letters chapterhouse in Canton, Mississippi. A basement would be unusual for a house that far south, but it wasn’t unheard of. He imagined the chapterhouses were built special.

Rowena began stirring next to him.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, tugging at where her wrists were bound to the chair’s arms.

“How are you feeling?”

“Parched,” she said dryly. “And pissed. Where the devil are we?”

“Well, it’s not the Hilton. Mississippi, I think.”

“How dreadful,” Rowena opined.

“Can you magic us out of these ropes?”

Rowena shut her eyes and whispered something in what sounded like Gaelic. Sam felt something hot flare up in his gut in response, but the ropes tying them down didn’t budge.

“There’s something else suppressing me,” she said. “Without the cuffs, perhaps. Or without the additional suppression.”

Sam twisted his wrists against the ropes. They were well tied. Given enough time he could probably get free, but it would take some work.

Unfortunately their good luck ended with the creak of a door and the clunk of footsteps down the stairs behind them. Sam resisted the urge to crane his head around. Sure enough, Layton stepped into view, circling the chairs.

“I’ve never seen the cuffs work on two witches before,” he said, almost conversationally, as he made his way over to the desk.

“I’m not a witch,” Sam said.

“Maybe you don’t practice,” Layton said. “But if the cuffs worked on you then you have plenty of natural affinity. Not that it matters.”

Well that was ominous. “And why is that?”

Layton turned, leaning against the desk. “The Men of Letters created those cuffs—”

“With magic,” Rowena cut in with a sneer.

But Layton was unfazed. “With magic,” he agreed. “A necessary evil. They were created to bind the power of a witch.”

“Bloody hypocrites,” Rowena muttered under her breath.

Sam resisted the urge to look at her, to try and figure out if she'd known that the cuffs were designed for witches, that they'd be useless against Michael. Bigger problems right now. “Even if I have ‘natural affinity’, I’m not a witch,” Sam insisted. The idea was dumb. If he had an inclination towards magic he would know it. “So take them off.”

“I’m afraid they don’t work like that,” Layton said, entirely unapologetically. “You see, the Men of Letters wanted to make sure the cuffs would stay on long enough to take care of the problem. So there’s only one way to remove them.”

Sam could hazard a pretty good guess, but he had to be sure. “And that is?”

“Death. They’ll spring open once you die.”

“Great,” Sam said with a sigh. “So you’re going to kill us?”

“Afraid so,” Layton said. “I’m a fifth generation witch hunter. It’s in my blood.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to do this, Layton. William.” Sam said. “I’m a hunter, a Men of Letters, a legacy like yourself. We don’t have to be enemies.”

“I’m sorry, Winchester. There’s only one way this ends. I don’t even know if there is another way to get those cuffs off. Though I suppose I can kill her first to find out.”

“Try it, mortal,” Rowena snapped.

Layton turned back to the books scattered across his desk. “Actually, I was hoping to test a few theories. This is a unique opportunity.”

Sam wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of being a guinea pig, but at least it gave him time to think up an escape plan. With their captor studying his texts Sam chanced a glance over at Rowena.

She looked more pissed off than anything else. Sam wondered if she’d reset the spell that had brought her back to life previously. Hopefully. This didn’t seem like it would count in Billie’s book as Sam having killed her, but he couldn’t be sure. “Any ideas?” he whispered to her.

“Only that when I get free I’m going to roast him alive,” Rowena replied, loud enough at the end for Layton to hear just fine.

The Man of Letters turned and approached them, standing only a few feet away. He was no longer in his full suit, just the slacks and white shirt, the sleeves of which he’d rolled up to his elbows. He lifted his left hand, which gleamed with his own gold cuff. Sam tensed as Layton brought his other hand up to it and pressed down.

Though he’d tried to prepare himself, Sam was still bowled over by the wave of pain that emanated from the band on his right wrist. It felt like the metal had become red-hot and was burning his skin away, or like it had injected fire directly into his veins. His eyes reflexively slammed shut, but when he forced them open in time to see glowing yellow lines twining up his arm, just under his skin, from where the it burned against his wrist.

An interminable amount of time later Layton let off, leaving Sam and Rowena to slump against the chairs they were tied to.

“Interesting,” Layton said, muttering to himself more than anything. He was back at his desk, shuffling through papers. “It’s not usually that powerful. There seems to be feedback, echoing through the chain between you two, enhancing the power of the cuffs. Remarkable.”

“I’m going to cut his tongue out with scissors,” Rowena hissed under her labored breaths.

It was hard for Sam to disagree with the sentiment.

Eventually Layton headed back up the stairs, mumbling about needing to check his books, leaving Sam and Rowena once again in the chill dark of the basement.

“Numpty,” Rowena jeered after him, and Sam wasn’t exactly sure what it meant but he was sure he agreed.

“So you’re sure your magic can’t get us out of these ropes?” Sam asked.

“Sam, about what he said…” Rowena started.

But Sam didn’t want to hear any of her excuses. As if it wasn’t bad enough that this hunt was a bust and he was trapped by an utter moron, all of this was taking precious time away from his search for Michael. And Dean.

“Focus on escaping. We’ll deal with the rest later.”

Rowena nodded and closed her eyes. Sam felt the twinge that signaled her attempting to use her powers, but the ropes remained stubbornly in place.

“I have a theory,” Rowena offered.

“I’m all ears.”

“What Layton said, about you having latent magical ability…”

“I don’t,” Sam said.

“I would have agreed, before,” Rowena said. “You Winchesters have always seemed perfectly mundane to me. Exhaustingly so. But given what we know about the cuffs...”

“It could be something else. The… the demon blood,” Sam insisted. “Some witches get their powers from demons.”

“Oh, I don’t think most Borrowers would have much to fear from these.”

Sam huffed out a frustrated breath. “Then what?”

“It’s something I used to see, back when people still believed in witches and feared being one. A child with natural affinity for magic would erect mental walls, separating themselves from their power.”

Sam took a moment to parse her words. “Wait, so, you think I’m in denial?”

“Well if the repressive shoe fits…” She ignored the glare Sam leveled at her. “Something else Layton said, about the transference between the cuffs. You said you could feel when I use magic?”

“Yeah.”

“These blasted things were originally designed to turn a witch’s power back against herself. With only one I should be able to still use my magic, but I think it’s being stopped by your mental blocks.”

He had to admit that it made a certain amount of sense. But if it was true… “Then what do we do?”

“We need to bring those blocks down.”

“So, you’re saying I need to snap out of my denial?”

“Essentially.”

“Great,” Sam deadpanned.

“And if you could do it before he comes back…?”

“Thanks for the support,” he said dryly.

He closed his eyes. This was ridiculous. Sam wasn’t a witch. Sure, he used magic, but so did Dean and Bobby and everyone else. It was just a necessary evil of hunting.

And, yeah, if the chore seemed to fall to Sam more often than Dean, that didn’t mean anything. Sam’s Latin was better.

Right?

He’d always felt a little wrong, a little tainted. Always thought he wasn’t exactly pure. When he’d learned from Azazel that he’d been fed demon blood as a baby that seemed to be the answer. But was it?

He thought back to the last time he cast a spell. It hadn’t been long ago. He’d dug up a tracking spell from the bunker’s archive, hoping it would lead him to Dean. It hadn’t. It had been frustrating because Sam was sure he’d done the spell correctly.

Why had he thought that?

He brought to mind actually casting the spell. When he’d finally dropped the match into the ingredients he could feel the spell echo in him. But everyone felt that, right? Very few witches were ‘naturals’, most of those that didn’t deal with a demon for their abilities learned spellcasting through careful study. And most of the spells performed by hunters were basic stuff that didn’t require much skill.

And, sure, he’d seen plenty of spells fizzle out when cast by other hunters. If that hadn’t happened much to Sam, it was because Sam was better prepared. He’d just studied more.

Right?

Though if he was honest, the place he could feel call out to the spells he cast felt a lot like what twinged when Rowena cast her spell.

Could she be on to something?

It wasn’t as if he’d heard many good things about witches as a kid. Other than some nights stuck watching Sabrina the Teenage Witch on ABC’s TGIF line-up everything about witches was pretty negative. John certainly had no love lost for witches, who he railed against at length any time they’d come up against one. And Dean particularly hated witches, who he considered gross and unsanitary, and talked about spewing bodily fluids everywhere. Which, as far as Sam could tell, wasn’t really true.

So who could blame Sam for not wanting to be a witch? For fighting the part of him drawn to the magical grimoires that John used to burn up so they didn’t fall into the wrong hands?

Aw, fuck.

Rowena was right.

She was never going to let him hear the end of this.

There was a tiny shift and a pop, like a knuckle cracking, as something gave way inside of him and then Sam was swept away by a rush of power not his own.

When he came back to himself he was sure that very little time has passed, but the ropes that had bound him to the chair had crumbled to dust. All that remained of the witch-trapping cuffs themselves was a small pool of molten gold beneath the chair.

Rowena was practically glowing, her eyes flashing purple.

“I’m going to kill your order’s pathetic acolyte,” she says, voice gone metallic with power.

Sam should have argued. He would have, under normal circumstances. Killing humans was wrong.

But he’d been tortured and knocked out and tied up and Rowena, for all that he was pretty sure she’d tricked him this time, was a powerful ally that he couldn’t risk alienating.

Dean was still out there somewhere.

Sam didn’t watch. He left the house and stood on the broad porch as she took her vengeance out of Layton's hide. Maybe it was a quick death. There weren’t any screams.

It was bright outside, probably mid-afternoon. Sam wasn’t sure what day it was. Like the St. Louis Chapterhouse that he’d found the Werther Box in, this one was situated in the middle of an otherwise normal neighborhood. The humidity said Mississippi. He had a long drive ahead of him. He didn’t even have shoes.

There was a Cadillac Deville in the driveway from the early ‘70s. It was almost certainly Layton’s, so Sam didn’t feel bad that he was about to steal it. The Impala was back in Wichita—he’d have to call Mom to pick it up.

When Rowena stepped out onto the porch her hair was a bit mussed, but she wasn’t covered in blood or guts. Sam knew better than to think that meant Layton had gotten off easily.

“Sam. I’m sorry.”

It was honestly so unexpected that it threw him for a moment. Rowena wasn’t the apologizing type. He was so busy being shocked that he forgot what she was apologizing for, at least for a moment.

But of course that couldn’t last and the weight of Dean’s absence once again laid heavy on his shoulders. He’d wasted days, days where Dean was suffering as the vessel to an archangel, because Rowena lied to him. Tricked him so he’d help her.

“You knew the cuffs were designed to trap witches?”

She nodded, and while her countenance was the same velvet-over-steel he’d always admired about her, he knew her well enough now to see the hesitation in her eyes. “I knew some witches who had disappeared. Found still more when I asked about.”

It was useless to ask if those witches had deserved it. Those lines had been blurred for a long time. Sam was smart enough not to cast any stones, especially right now, with Dean gone. Thanks to a bunker full of friends and allies Sam was clinging to the perilous edge of sanity by his fingertips.

Rowena had few allies and fewer friends.

He released a long sigh. “I owed you, right?” Even though it hadn’t worked out the way he’d expected, she’d kept the portal to the Apocalypse World open long enough for him to save his family, even though it meant facing down Lucifer. That counted for a lot.

“That you did,” she said, shaking off the last hesitation that had lingered on her. “And it seems that you’ve learned something about yourself.”

He knew what she meant. Now that he’d identified it he could feel the magic thrumming low in his chest. “Yeah. Not sure what good it’ll do.”

“Well, if you ever need any guidance in the realm of magic, I hope you’ll think of me.”

He grinned. “Don’t you have better things to do than teaching a novice?”

“You’re hardly a novice, Samuel. You forget, I could feel your magic when we were connected. You have the makings of a truly phenomenal witch.”

He definitely wasn’t sure how to feel about that, so he boxed it up, set it aside.

“I’m heading back,” Sam said. He jerked a thumb at the Cadillac. “Need a ride?”

She craned her head to look around him. “In that antique? No, thank you.”

He didn’t know how she was planning on getting out of Canton, but shrugged it off as he loped down the porch steps. He was halfway across the neatly manicured lawn when Rowena called out to him:

“Sam!”

He turned.

“You’ll find your brother. But call me before you do anything too idiotic.”

He wasn’t sure how she could help, but the offer shifted the burden he carried. Just a fraction. Just enough to breathe slightly easier.

“Thanks,” he said, before cracking a smile. “No promises.”


End file.
